Een Wazige Weekendje In Amsterdam!

It was all a fuzzy haze. Such is life for anybody who visits Amsterdam, I imagine.

If I could recommend one city for young adults to visit – even if only for a weekend, though you will likely want to stay longer – it would be Amsterdam. It took me less than a day (but maybe a couple of drinks) to come to this conclusion, despite the grey clouds and mild rain that overshadowed and filled the city. For someone who despises the rain (yet chooses to continuously return to it for 9 months out of the year), this is saying something.

This is what Amsterdam does to normal people.

What happens in Las Vegas, stays in Las Vegas. Or at least it is supposed to. Amsterdam, however, takes a different approach to the experiences visitors have there, instead openly advertising its, well, openness. Amsterdam is renowned for being the cannabis capital of the world and embraces its reputation as the hotspot for partygoers of all kinds. With that said, nobody really goes to Amsterdam and returns home itching to fill their family-friendly blog with stories of the Red Light District. Pretty understandable stance I’m taking, right? Maybe if my dad starts his own blog titled The Memoirs of David Hansen: The Truth About the 1970s I’ll share an extra story or two. But until then, you’ll have to deal with normal, less exciting versions.

Central Station.

Classy.

Our time in Amsterdam started on Friday, May 17, and it started with a trip to the Hard Rock Café: Amsterdam. [Courtney and I are making it a point to go to as many different Hard Rocks as we can during our time in Europe. So far, we have Florence and Amsterdam checked off. Barcelona and Rome soon to come.]

After our first Dutch meal of the trip, we began the real adventures. Our first stop: Anne Frank’s House. Now, if any of you reading ever go to Amsterdam, go to Anne Frank’s House. And do it the first day you get there. Don’t forget or lose track of time or come up with any other unimportant excuse, just do it. Though simple, it is, by far, one of the greatest learning experiences I have ever received, and it is unlike any other museum that you could go to. I am far from the most knowledgeable person regarding the story of Anne Frank but even I could understand and feel the significance of such a place just moments after walking in. It was unlike any of the art or history museums or churches I had visited in Italy or elsewhere – it captivates you from your first step to well beyond your last. The story is fascinating, for lack of a better, more appropriate word. I find it utterly remarkable that the entire story is only possible because of one teenager’s diary, and that the story of that one teenager and her family has forever given an otherwise impossible insight into such a terrible time. There are a lot of things for tourists to do in Amsterdam and the rest of Europe, but if given the chance to visit Amsterdam and spend at least a couple hours there, Anne Frank’s House is something that everybody should experience at least once.

[Of course, I wasn't supposed to take photographs in Anne Frank's House so...I (ashamedly) snapped a couple for this blog. I don't feel good about it, but it is just such an intense and important story that I couldn't let it go undocumented.]

The line was a tad long…

The steps to the ‘Secret Annexe’.

The bookshelf that hid where Anne Frank, her family, and another family hid behind for two years.

 

We signed the book at Anne Frank’s House!

After Anne Frank’s House, Courtney and I readied ourselves for the Beer Tour we signed up for only a couple days before. Our group was small – just our tour guide (Shaun or Sean?) and an older couple from Calgary, Canada. Just quickly, let’s get this out of the way: the man from Canada was awesome, offering to buy us drinks at nearly every bar (and successfully doing so at a random little coco leaf liquor store. Our tour was certainly not hurt by the fact that he got drunk alongside us and became our friend.

As for the tour, it was more of a pub crawl with information about beer, Amsterdam, European politics, and pretty much anything else our guide cared to talk about. Though we felt like beer amateurs initially (after meeting outside of the place pictured below), Courtney and I soon found that what we lacked in experience, we more than made up for with enthusiasm.

So. Much. Beer.

We tried four or five different types of beer (including Dutch and Belgium beers) and were taken to a liqueur tasting room where we bought and tasted a couple liqueurs (obviously).

Liqueur tasting room!

You have to slurp the top of it before you take it. Otherwise, they think you are R-U-D-E, RUDE.

Each bar or pub had its own unique feel. The first was compact and sociable, dimly lit and made us feel like we were drinking in the heart of Amsterdam; the second and third were newer, more modern, and one had chicken thighs on rotisserie that were begging me to buy them (unfortunately, I passed); and the fourth was another one similar to the first, only we were also served cheese (which was very good) along with our beers.

From left to right: Courtney, our tour guide, the guy from Canada who bought us drinks.

 

Each bar that we were taken to was full with locals – our guide makes sure to take those he is guiding to local places, giving each group a true experience of drinking beer (and other alcohols) in Amsterdam. Should you ever go to Amsterdam, look up Urban Amsterdam Adventures on TripAdvisor and book one of Shaun’s (or Sean’s?) tours. He doesn’t push you from place to place on his tours; he allows the group to dictate where the tour is going to go, and from this he guides you to a very interesting view of Amsterdam’s central area. His tour was both insightful and entertaining, and I would strongly recommend it to everyone. And no, I am not just saying all of this because he instagrammed a photograph of Courtney and I. But that didn’t hurt his case…

I think more bars should have menus like this.

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Stay classy, Amsterdam.

After the tour, Courtney and I decided to stop at one of Amsterdam’s famous coffeeshops on our way back to the hotel. Without giving anything away: in Amsterdam, coffeeshops don’t exactly sell coffee. Some do, but…that isn’t really what they are about. The orange juice is really good though.

A nice little coffeeshop, to be sure.

One last note about that first day: the Red Light District has its fair share of local fast food shops. You may think, “Fast food? Ew, Wally. I only eat vegetables, fruits, and the necessary proteins. I thought you liked good food.” Yeah, yeah, yeah; valid criticism. Too bad these little shops sell really good french fries and I bought some and you didn’t. Sucks to miss out on good (if not good for you) food, healthy people.

The next day, Courtney and I spent much of the morning and early afternoon walking around and soaking in Amsterdam at a leisurely pace. Of course, once we came across a movie theater and saw an ad for The Great Gatsby, we could not resist. As some of you may know, Courtney loves movies and I love Leonardo DiCaprio. (Note: He is getting old and a little chubby in the chin. And I kind of like it. It makes me feel better about my growing chin is good to see actors age like us regular citizens.) So, we splurged and watched the movie (in 3D, no less!) and it was…very good. Classic Leo, the rare instance in which a movie outdoes its book counterpart a movie based on a book doesn’t fall flat on its face. I would recommend it to my father — which is saying something — though I am sure he will find some difference between book and movie that drives him crazy. That is David Hansen for you.

After the movie, we continued our touring of Amsterdam on foot, before settling down in the building where Heineken began, some three- or four-hundred years ago. Now converted into a hotel, the bar on the street still sported the original (at least in design) device that was used in the past. Our tour guide the previous day told us that Heineken tastes different in Amsterdam than anywhere else in the world because the recipe was created using the water found in Holland. Amazingly enough, water tastes different all around the world, and this creates different tastes of Heineken. Unsurprisingly, the Amsterdam version of Heineken is his favorite, thought he stopped short of calling it a top-level beer. Two cold ones later (and they were better, at least in my opinion, than those in the United States) and we were back on the street.

Across the street was a fresh waffle shop. Of course. One look at the menu and we were hooked. Freshly made waffles? Yep. Nutella? Yep. Straw — oh, never mind. “I’ll just take one with Nutella, please.” My pocket was four euros lighter, yet my heart was forty times happier. Weird. Whoever said money can’t buy happiness has never bought a belgian waffle with Nutella on it. I should start blogging before dinner because I always end up making myself hungry.

Dank.

A couple hours and a couple stops later, Courtney and I arrived at the canal in front of the Central Station for the night’s activity: a candlelight canal cruise. This mini-cruise lasted more than two hours, and saw us tasting different cheeses and wines and even offered a romantic moment or two. There is a bridge in Amsterdam (aptly named the ‘Skinny Bridge’ as I am anything but these days) that has a tradition: if you go under it with your better half and share a kiss with them under the bridge, you will last together forever. Naturally, Courtney and I decided to forego this tradition obliged, much to the enjoyment of all of the other couples (read: all of them were significantly older). So I guess I’m stuck with her for all of eternity now. Things could be worse.

Courtney and our boat!

Skinny Bridge!

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Our time in Amsterdam ended the next day, but not before another treat (or two), compliments of an American bakery we had found on our first day. It was an incredibly fun (and educational) experience, and it ranks high on my list of places that I would like to return to, hopefully in the near-future.

Bye, Amsterdam!

But before we go back to Rome, let’s look at some of the photos that Amsterdam probably doesn’t (or maybe it does) want you to see:

Interesting…

Probably not PG-13. Sorry…

So close, yet so far, Starbucks.

And, last but not least:

I have made it. (Hint: Notice his name.)

Ciao!

Prima Settimana A Roma!

I doubt there is a much better way to detail someone’s first week in Rome than with photographs. And for that reason, this post is going to be driven by photographs, whereas the words will fill in the cracks. If a picture is a thousand words, here is like, a million words (give or take a few thousand).

Interesting Facts About The Colosseum

• The Colosseum could hold 50,000 – 70,000 spectators for a single gathering or event. Events that often saw blood spilled and an increase in the death toll. And people say there is pressure playing in Madison Square Garden. Okay, people.
• Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! And gorillas and cheetahs too. Those are the animals that fought against each other and real, living, breathing human beings. For sport. Cool in theory, not so cool in practice. Thanks, but I’ll pass on being mauled to death by a tiger. Frosted Flakes commercials are scary enough as is.
• Workers were occasionally eaten by the animals. And they called themselves an empire… Modern Society: 1; Romans: 0
• The games and events taking place at the Colosseum would last the whole day. The Romans loved to drink wine and gamble from their seats throughout the events, doing so as they watched gladiators fight to the death right in front of them. I’m back to thinking this little empire was actually doing things right. Romans: 1, Modern Society: 1
• Naturally, our group asked how many gladiators died in the Colosseum. Our guide couldn’t answer directly, only saying that the number was big. Yikes.
• The Colosseum is awesome. I wish I could have played my sporting events there. Maybe UW could move its intramural flag football games there…
• Gladiators fought for money and fame – they received money for winning (along with the pleasure to continue living) and fame all across the Roman Empire. Fight somebody and win, you get everything you want. Fight somebody and lose, you die and no longer matter. Sounds like a good gamble.
• Our guide said something about gladiators being free from fighting once they had won ten times (all of them in a row, obviously). Imagine being the guy who ended his career with a record of 9-1. That would suck.
• The Colosseum was not named that because of its sheer size (which many believe, including myself until a couple days ago). Instead, it was named that because it was built near a colossal statue of Nero. You learn something new everyday here in Italy.

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Benefits Of Living In Rome

• Everything we want or need is within 100 steps (not an exaggeration – fresh produce, a meat shop, restaurants, Grom, class, cafes, Grom, supermarkets, multiple piazzas, museums, bars, clubs, Grom…you name it, we live right next to it). It actually is saddening how close everything is. Just by stepping out of our apartment complex, we are stepping into a piazza that has everything listed above and entertaining people (both Italian and otherwise). Burning calories is not something I will be doing by going to class or eating out or going anywhere. Sorry, body.
• Any time you want to see an historic building or place, you can do so in less than 30 minutes. The Colosseum, Trevi Fountain, the Spanish Steps, the Pantheon, etc. A ridiculous amount of history is packed into one city. It’s amazing.
• People speak English. Now, this isn’t that big of a beneft, as I actually liked trying to have conversations with people in which neither one of us knew what the other was saying, but sometimes it is nice to ask “Where is the bathroom?” and get a simple, “To your left, to your right” kind of answer. Trade a little tradition for simplicity.
• Grom is less than 50 steps away. Did I mention that already?
• You get to live in Rome. That is a benefit itself. Period.
• Easy travel to almost anywhere in Italy and Europe. Want to go to southern Italy? You can do that by plane or train. Has Rome become too casual for you? Fly to Amsterdam or Barcelona. Feeling homesick and want to return to the United States? Suck it up; you get to live in Rome. As in, Rome, Italy, one of the coolest cities in the world. That is where I get to live for a month. A month! And I receive credits for that. Absolutely absurd. You should have to give up credits to live here. But I’ll take them if they’re going to give them to me, I guess.

Hope you enjoyed that!

Ciao!

“We don’t stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing.”

Una Settimana A Firenze!

I didn’t like Florence.

As in, I didn’t like leaving Florence. I am sure that there are people out there that think cities like Venice and Florence are overhyped…I am not one of those people. Just as Venice lived up to its name a few weeks prior, Florence did not disappoint. The only bad part? We had only four days to visit. Such a city deserves more.

Though we had only four days to live up Florence, we certainly did our best to get the full experience. We saw Michelangelo’s David. There was Boticelli’s Birth of Venus. And then there was a trip up the Duomo, a night at the opera (another one!), and more gift shopping than my bag could handle. Suffice to say, we had a busy schedule.

Not to mention a dish of Florence’s renowned bistecca florentina and another meal that was quite possibly the best I have had yet in Italy, and one that should be nominated for Best Meal of My Life when I pass on from this earth. So you could say it was a good trip, despite its short length.

Florence Art: David and Venus

Obviously, art is a big deal in Italy. Now, I’ll never claim myself incredibly knowledgable about art (though I did take AP Art History in high school…) or even that I am a strong art enthusiast. However, I do know a cool (and quite noteworthy) sculpture when I see one, and that is exactly what David is. Michelangelo (the artist, not our Italian professor and guide) is a pretty big deal, so seeing arguably his greatest masterpiece (the Sisten Chapel was a decent final product as well) in person was definitely exciting. David is much bigger than I would have anticipated, and he looks nothing like the other David in my life, my father. The sculpture is much more toned and intimidating than the real thing, as difficult as that may be to imagine. Also, because I care about you readers, I ignored the “No Photos” sign and the lady yelling at me not to take photos and took one or two (or four) for your enjoyment. I do this for you, even when it means putting myself on the line.

Yeah…didn’t really care too much about this sign. Luckily, I avoided art museum jail.

Our first look at David.

Courtney being really mature in front of David…

 

Up close and personal.

A look from behind.

Somebody came very close to repeating Michelangelo’s work. Bravo, little David.

As for the Birth of Venus, Boticelli’s finest work did not disappoint either. It was bigger than expected, though its vibrant colors had clearly aged in the years since its conception. Having the opportunity to see the sculptures and paintings in real life that I used to see on index cards in my nightmares (thanks, Ms. Strub) is a special one, and not one I take lightly. I only wish I could have seen these works four years ago when I knew every little detail about them. Now, I’m just another tourist wishing I had more cultural knowledge.

The Duomo

Four hundred and sixty-three steps. 463. That is how many steps you must climb to reach the top of the Duomo. That is how many steps your legs — no matter their size — must force their way up to find the greatest and most expansive view of all of Florence.

And it did not disappoint.

The Duomo!

The Duomo at night!

Hardly known for our stamina or fitness, Courtney and I still began the ascent optimistically. However, we soon learned that our optimism badly blurred our vision of a sad reality: we were not ready physically — nor psychologically — for the trek ahead.

No lift, only 463 steps. Easy.

Armed with stomachs bursting at the scene from six weeks of pizza and pasta and legs that would sore from standing in line for gelato, we were, admittedly, far from proper Duomo-climbing shape. But our will to see the top carried us.

Captain of the Struggle Bus.

Once there, it was magnificent. Glistening with sweat, we were soon cooled by the morning air reheated by the unusually warm morning air. Despite this, nothing could detract from our view, one that had us overlooking one of Italy’s most notable cities. Well, nothing except for the fact that there was no elevator to take us down and give our legs a much-needed reprieve from the steps. We did manage to safely make our way to the bottom, leaving us witha a feeling of exhausted accomplishment.

The top! Kind of scary, though…

Nine hundred and twenty-six steps for this:

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As for the rest of our time in Florence, that can be summed up in four words: gift shopping and food.

First, the gift shopping. Florence is the leather capital of Italy, so naturally, leather gifts were purchased in abundance. I won’t say what was bought or for whom — as not to ruin the surprise — but let’s just say I could fill in for Santa if the need arises.

Random Picture Alert: Courtney and a horse!

As with any tourist-popular, full-of-street-vendor cities, Florence allowed for its fair share of bargaining. Obviously, Courtney and I took full advantage of this. Indian bargaining this was not, though our skills translated well to the Italian game. And make no mistake: bargain shopping is a game to me, and it is a game that I refuse to concede defeat to some middle-aged Italian man or woman who thinks they can get more than five euros out of me for a t-shirt. You can sell the next three for eight euros a piece to that elderly couple from Florida, but you are going to sell me this one for five, and possibly even less than that. And if you refuse to play by my rules, I’ll leave. I don’t need that shirt, I need to win. So play my game or go home with a van full of unsold merchandise. Believe that.

[Note: For those of you who think I'm too serious about my shopping game, I'm not. You play to win the game. Also, I am blessed to have a teammate who cares as much as I do. Without Courtney, I'm hardly the shopper I need to be to defeat my opponents. There is not a better one-two punch out there.]

Put more simply, the shopping in Florence was fun, and it reminded me of my Indian experiences (though not on the same scale). Hopefully I can fit all of my recently purchased items in my bag…

As for food, that could be its own post entirely — I’ll do my best to keep it short.

The bistecca florentina was all it was hyped up to be. Tender, fell right off the bone, juicy, delicious. Really don’t know how else to describe it other than with pictures and a recommendation that you go to Florence (or maybe a crazy-nice restaurant in America) and order it for yourself. Worth every penny, worth special recognition.

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However, the real meal that deserves mentioning was our last. Dinner for our last night in Florence found us eating at ZaZa’s as a group. This was very likely the best meal of the entire trip (in my opinion) and one of the greats of all time (again, in my humble and young opinion). My three course meal went as follows:

Ravioli with a walnut cream sauce

Special beef escalope with rosemary potatoes

Chocolate cake with eggless custard

The ravioli? Delicious and substantial but not overwhelming, unique because of the different type of cream sauce. Arguably one of the better ravioli dishes out there.

The special beef escalope? Hands down one of the best pieces of beef I have ever had — there was not one thing wrong with it. No excessive fat; no under- or over-cooked areas. Tender, succulent, perfect. Did I mention it was perfect and had no flaws? Also, the rosemary potatoes were strikingly good. My mouth is watering just writing this. I may need a break.

The chocolate cake and custard? Very good, it’s only flaw being that it had the difficult task of following the previous two dishes. Seriously. The ravioli and beef were that good. They made chocolate cake seem almost ordinary. Do you realize what that means?

I very much doubt that I have ever had a meal so good, it made a typically delicious dessert seem merely decent. I usually look forward to dessert, thinking about what is going to cure my sweet tooth while I’m still eating my main course. That is the type of person I am. But now? I just…I just don’t know. That meal changed me. I bought the restaurant’s cookbook it was so good. Even Courtney said she may have found a pesto pasta that matched — if not outpaced — that made by the one and only David A. Hansen. This meal may forever change the meaning of dinner. I may never be the same.

Time to end this post with some pictures that didn’t make the cut above:

Two hands, two gelatos. My idol.

If you’re ever in Florence, go here. Best. Pizza. Ever. And this includes Naples.

A couple guys did this on the street with what looked like crayons. Then they washed it away the next day and did a different painting. Cray.

Courtney may or may not have broken a wine glass at dinner. Luckily, our waiter was our homie.

Panc posing as a lion or a Heisman candidate. Still not sure which this is…

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The tomb of Machiavelli. Also known as the inspiration for Tupac’s revival, coming in 2014. Beware.

And a Happy 9 Months from us to you!

Panc and Courtney enjoying a beautiful day in Florence!

Wine? Check. Duomo? Check. Loving life in Italy? Checkmate.

 

Vivere Stile Di Vita Italiano!

Italian operas, castle dinners, and hail storms — just another week for me here in Italy. Sounds like a decent living, right?

At the end of my last post I alluded to the opera that I was part of the night’s game plan. Though I wouldn’t call myself an opera fanatic (this was my first one; all those symphonies I was forced to go to went to as a child didn’t help), I was excited to see one of Italy’s oldest forms of entertainment. And the show did not disappoint.

Everybody snappin’ pictures of the stage pre-performance.

Somebody’s excited for the opera!

Now, I should tell you beforehand that the entire show was not only in opera singing format (duh) but it was also entirely in Italian. I don’t think I would have enjoyed it as much if it had been in English. Being able to follow the storyline is definitely a positive for English shows, however, I found it much more culturally stimulating (he said, hoping to sound like a cultural snob) to see the show in Italian. I might not have recognized every word — or even one out of every ten — but I felt like a local, like this was how my Tuesday nights were meant to be spent.

With that said, I am still a 21-year old American college kid, and one who has the attention span of a kitten in a room of yarn. To say that the first half of the show was slow would be incorrect, but when you struggle to pick up the progression of the plot it becomes increasingly difficult to stay attentive. After halftime intermission however, the plot picked up. I won’t go into specifics (well, I can’t), but in short, the main character, forever spurned by the love of his life, drinks a magic potion (read: wine) that helps him get her, which it…did. Italians like good-feeling endings, as does nearly every other type of person. Classic plot, expected ending.

But the most memorable part — the part of the show that reminded me this was an Italian opera — came shortly before the final scene. Sitting alone on stage, the main character — he who had already performed two hours of memorized opera singing straight — began a solo, complete with octave changes and dramatic pauses, that lasted no less than seven minutes. Seven minutes. Straight. He wasn’t singing a Taylor Swift song, lip synching the lines he didn’t like. No, this was seven minutes (and probably longer) of deep, loud, lung-punishing opera singing.

Then came the moment.

At the end of the solo, the entire audience — probably upwards of a thousand people — clapped and cheered loud. Overcome with emotion, the actor did something I’ve never seen before. He broke character, came to the front of the stage, and clapped. He clapped back to the audience, thanking them for coming, enjoying, and appreciating his showing. He clapped at the orchestra below thanking them for their part. And he probably clapped a little bit for himself because he was, well, awesome.

And then he performed the entire solo again.

Apparently, all of the Italian-speaking people in attendance asked him for an encore during the clapping. And because the only thing better than a solo is hearing the solo again, he obliged with little hesitation.

And then he did it again. Just kidding. But he did laugh when an Italian man seated right behind me yelled for him to do it a third time.

Bravo, man. Bravo.

Overall, my Italian opera experience was a good one. It was most definitely the best entertainment I never understood.

Only two days later, we found ourselves eating dinner in a castle. One long table, unlimited bottles of wine, friends all around. And in a castle. No big deal, right?

Members only. It’s like Costco, except for castle dinners.

Our group from the head of the table. That’s right, I was King for a Knight. Bad joke, sorry.

Our first course was…this:

I don’t know what it was. I don’t know how it was made. But I do know it was good. Really, really good.

[EDITOR'S NOTE: There is a rumor going around that this was some sort of asparagus dish...or something. Nothing was, or ever will be, confirmed.]

Our mystery appetizer was followed by pasta with vegetables, potatoes, and ham. It was delicious. Well, it was delicious until our server refused to accept “No” as a respectable answer when asking if we wanted seconds. He must not know about the gross amount of food that I’ve consumed on this trip, because if he did, he would have taken food off of my plate. Suffice to say, I was contently full, bordering on contently obese.

Our second main course. That is one main course too many for this little guy.

And then they brought the “main course.” It was like they wanted to see how our bodies would react if pushed to their absolute limit. The ensuing pork loin and potatoes dish was really good…but it would have been way better if it had been served half an hour earlier. Dessert was served after, but I’d rather not talk any more about the meal that single-handedly (okay, maybe all those gelatos haven’t helped) took a year or two off of my life expectancy. Obesity is a problem, but it is clearly an American one. Because Italy doesn’t care at all.

This dessert is endorsed by Courtney Arrington.

Courtney and her nude best friend.

I wish I was a celebrity so that I could have a “celebrity fat phase.” Look it up, it’s a real thing. Madonna, Jonah Hill (okay, maybe it wasn’t a phase, but…), Eminem, Kelly Clarkson, etc. Instead, I just continue to gain the Junior Jazillion. Sorry that I’m going to come home as a human-sized bowling ball, parents. I’ll workout this summer, I promise. It’s my (belated) (Chinese) New Year resolution.

I also ate homemade pasta twice a day for the past two weeks. Carbs are only good for you in excessive amounts, right?

As for the hail storm, I’ll keep that story brief. Huge chunks of ice began falling from the sky like mini-meteors, each destined to unleash maximum amounts of destruction. It was like the sky was having a one-sided snowball fight with the ground, except the sky was throwing concrete-like ice balls with little care for those (read: people and small animals) below. It looked a little like this, and for once I’m not exaggerating. It was cool. Literally. (I feel the need to apologize for that sad excuse of a joke. Not my best, sorry. I’m a little tired right now.)

This was a fraction of what each one looked like. Scary stuff.

Those are my two big stories (and one small one) from the past week. I have a couple more I could elaborate on, but this is a family-friendly blog and nobody wants to hear about how quickly college students studying abroad can finish a bottle (or three) of wine. Besides, what happens in Italy, stays in Italy.

I will say, however, that Courtney and I watched Jurassic Park: The Lost World one day. Just like back in 1997, it was great, the pinnacle of dinosaur cinematography. Jurassic Park has taught me a few important lessons: don’t mess with velociraptors; bald, nerdy guys are more likely to die when a group is confronted by a tyrannosaurus rex; and never, under any circumstances, go into the long grass. Don’t do it. It’s not fun, it’s not safe, you will die.

Anyways, hope all of you are well. Thanks for reading!

Ciao!

Ciao Verona!

PS. My Golden State Warriors start their series against the dreaded San Antonio Spurs tomorrow. Warriors in 7; book it.

Una Settimana A Verona!

Though nothing crazy has happened during our stay in Verona thus far, it has not been a week without stories. Courtney and I make every meal that we have eaten so far in Verona, save for our one night out with the group at an incredibly fancy restaurant. Eggs for breakfast, pasta and different pasta sauces for lunches and dinners. Not wanting to live too gloriously, we’ve also thrown some vegetables in there every now and then. Inventive meals, I know. We have made everything from homemade rigatone Bolognese to pesto pasta (still not as good as my parents’) to sautéed green beans and carrots. All of it has been either good or really good – I guess we can both thank our parents for that. Kitchen skills, as we have seen from watching our group members cook, may be easy to learn, but are tough to perfect. I won’t say Courtney and I (and Panc, another person born with the cooking gene) have perfected these skills, per se…but we are pretty confident in our abilities.

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I have actually found it both enjoyable and relaxing making all of my own meals, and though my father will laugh at this next statement, doing my own dishes hasn’t been quite the chore I have always made it out to be. I think making dinner every night is fun, though I can see how making dinner every night for the Chosen One picky-eating child that was me can wear on you after 20 years or so. So…sorry, dad. As for the dishes, who knows? Maybe I’ll come home and actually do them on a (more) consistent basis. Italy changes men.

One (not-so-quick) note: Because we haven’t been eating out in Verona, my gelato breaks have been erratic at best. Still, I managed to get a gelato yesterday for €3.50 at Amorino (if you go to Italy, go here). Now, that is not an unusual price – actually, it is a bit expensive, but only until you hear what my order was. Having gone to Amorino a couple times in the past week, I looked to expand my gelato game. I asked the lady behind the counter how many flavors I could get. Her response shocked me, in a very good way: As many as you want.

As many as I want?

I doubt this lady understood the imminent consequences of such a statement. I scouted the glass, tasted those on the bubble, and readied myself. I ordered my flavors, drafting them as if they were college football players and I was Trent Baalke, looking for players (crossed out) flavors that would lead us to a Super Bowl victory. In the end, I was holding a gelato that had five – yes, five – flavors on it. The squad consisted of Nutella (real flavor, star player), pistachio (savvy veteran), stracciatella (a fan favorite in Italy), hazelnut (solid role player), and strawberry (change of pace – could be a star on another team). The team tasted great, as my gelato teams typically do.

[The next day’s front page read: HANSEN TRADES UP, SELECTS SURE-FIRE HALL OF FAMER NUTELLA AS FIRST PICK]

Five flavors, one world class gelato cone.

Getting back to stories that actually matter…

Earlier in the week, our group went desert dessert wine tasting in the heart of Verona’s wine country. Because we received a deal thanks to Michelangelo’s connections (or something like that), we paid only €5 for what usually costs two or three times that. And what came with our little package? A cool wine-tasting glass (which we were allowed to keep) and unlimited sampling of the dessert wines on display. We were universally excited, eager at the opportunity to drink for free while participating in an important part of Italian culture.

Other than the two bottles of wine (one sparkling white, one dry red) and the chocolate brownie-cake that I bought, my biggest takeaway was this: apparently, my sweet tooth doesn’t translate to wines. Many of the dessert wines were sweet. I quickly found out that I prefer dryer wines to sweeter ones – I don’t pretend to know my wines, but I do pretend to know that if something is too sweet for me, it’s probably way too sweet. I will say, however, that the sparkling white wine (that Courtney and I later shared) tasted like a slightly more alcoholic version of Sprite. It was delicious, the taste I imagine all dessert winemakers try to create. The only knock on it was its low alcohol content, but when it tastes that good, that’s a detail I’m willing to let slide.

Our favorite wine! We have expensive tastes…

After trying all the wines we could in our one hour timeframe, Courtney and I came to a similar conclusion to that of other Italians – Amarone is the best wine we could find. Apparently, it is a favorite amongst Italians, and we could taste why. Unfortunately, better wine also costs more, and I tend to keep a strict budget in buying my wine. Following in my father’s footsteps, I suppose.

In short, I left the wine tasting with two bottles of wine, one chocolate brownie, one wine-tasting glass (which I hope doesn’t break as I attempt to bring it home), and an increased knowledge of dessert wines. Not a bad way to spend an evening in Italy.

As for my second-to-last story of this past week, I turn back to Sunday. Michelangelo, again, working his Italian magic was able to secure our group tickets to a soccer game in Verona, AC Chievo Verona v. Genoa. Naturally, going to a European soccer game in the afternoon meant treating the entire day like Game Day, meaning that kegs were purchased and finished and bottles of wine were quickly emptied (in a safe manner, of course). Though Genoa won the game 1-0 on a diving header late in the second half, we did not go home disappointed. The crowd was not large (neither middling team was playing for much this late in the season), but where there were people, they cheered and chanted like I expected fans of an Italian Serie A team to cheer and chant. I have a feeling that if I am able to go to a Barcelona game later on this trip, it might just be a bit more raucous…

Tickets to the game!

European soccer!

Just because everybody should watch a Messi highlight every now and then to remind themselves that as good as you are at something, you’re not as good at it than he is at soccer if you work hard, you will accomplish your goals.

I’ll try to keep my last story short, as I know fitting a week’s worth of material into one blog post is a cruel way to treat my readers. Our group spent yesterday at the most famous library in Verona. We did a little touring of the library and then settled in the Theology Room, a room which was special because of the wide variety of texts it had, most of which date back to the 14th- and 15th-centuries. Some books were missing their binding, most books were faded in one form or another, and all of the books were old. Like, super old. Older-than-our-country old. So, when we were told that we would be allowed to touch a couple of them — an allowance that is hardly made available to anybody, much less a bunch of middling kids college students — we were excited. I was a tad nervous that I might ruin some irreplaceable piece of Italian literature, but I was excited.

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Old…

…and older.

Because books were often kept on their backs, the title was printed on the sides of the pages.

My new literary friends and I.

That is all that I have for now. Seeing as Michelangelo is currently teaching us about Italian opera, I should probably get back to taking notes. I mean, we are going to the Italian opera tonight, so I should probably know a little background information…

Ciao!

PS. A special note to all of you Seattle people reading this: I’m sorry that you didn’t get the Sonics and that the NBA screwed you over again. You will get a team soon because anybody with the last name of Hansen cannot be stopped. For the time being, I invite you to root for the Warriors, your soon-to-be NBA Champions.

Addio Padova; Ciao Verona!

Our time in Padova has come to an end. After serving as our base for our first three weeks in Italy, it was time to move one. Though I initially viewed Verona as boring and not seriously eventful, the little university town grew on me as the weeks passed. It is a very homely place and though it may not be the center of European nightlife or historical monuments, it was a great place to help us settle into the Italian lifestyle. For much of our time there, Padova was underappreciated. But as we left for the train station one last time, there was a part of me that felt sad. Of course, that was mostly because I was going to miss my favorite waitress ever:

Our favorite waitress in Italy!

After the short 45-minute train ride to Verona and a subsequent ten-minute taxi ride to our residence, we arrived at our new home for the next two weeks.  We were very excited to move into this new residence, as each room has a kitchen (along with a bed and bathroom), complete with a stove, microwave, refrigerator, freezer, and various pots and pans, available at our disposal. As we stepped into our rooms, our excitement was not misguided.

Set with all of the necessary kitchen appliances, we all made our way down the road to the nearest super market. Once there, we were like kids in a candy store – everything looked good, way better than it ever had back home. Five bags of pasta? Done. Two types of cheeses? Obviously. Carrots and green beans? Because I like eating healthy. Nutella? Because eating healthy is overrated.

In all seriousness, we shopped like it was Black Friday and every type of food was more interesting than any that had come before it. Courtney and I are the food snobs of the group – we are, and I don’t know if this is a good or bad reputation to have, becoming the people that our group members go to for food recommendations. So anytime we eat (or shop for food in this case), we feel a little pressure to pick out winning meals. Seeing as we have some of the most sophisticated taste buds in the world, we went about selecting our groceries very carefully. For only 44 euros, Courtney and I bought enough food for four or five days (hopefully), which is pretty economically efficient, or at least so we think. The rainy weather on the walk home tried to dampen our excitement to cook for ourselves – literally – however we are from Seattle and therefore are used to the rain*.

*Not true at all. You never “get used” to the rain in Seattle. People who say this are liars – they might be good people, have other good characteristics, but they are, at least for the moment when they say that, liars. It sucks when it rains the first time, it sucks when it rains the last time, and it sucks when it rains every time in between. Never do I look out my window, only to see rain and think: “Yeah, I was pretty tired of the sun. Besides, I’m used to this.” Not once, not ever.

Now that my anti-rain rant is over, we can get back to much more uplifting stories. Apologies, but I just don’t believe it should ever rain when I am in Italy. This is supposed to be a vacation (crossed out) a study abroad trip.

After a brief info session about Verona and our new residence, we went to a nearby (crossed out) farther-away-than-anticipated bar for drinks and a free buffet. Now, when I say “drinks,” I mean Coronas for (euro sign)4; when I say “free buffet,” I mean three rounds of small appetizer plates that a table of six could (and did) finish handily in less than a minute. To say that we were disappointed would be an understatement, especially when Courtney and I had gnocchi waiting for us – no, begging for us – to make it back at the residence. However, our stay at the bar did produce some good stories. There were races to extract limes from Corona bottles, lessons on the creation of Mountain Dew (apparently, it was first made to be mixed with whiskey – who would have known?), and more entertaining quotations than I could fit in this post. Two of the best:

Mikey: “Don’t do anything with a face on it.”

Kyle: ”Sgucci: Excuse me, but it’s Gucci.”

[Note: For those of you who don’t know (which is likely everybody who reads this blog), The term “Gucci” is synonymous with the word “good.” How you wouldn’t know that is beyond me.]

Still hungry and a tad inebriated, Courtney and I made our way back to the precious gnocchi in Courtney’s kitchen – I don’t think either of us have been more excited to cook a meal at 10:30 PM.  So we boiled a pot of water, through the gnocchi in, topped it with marinara and mozzarella, and garnished each plate with arugula, bread, and olive oil. It was like being at home, a welcome feeling for us.

And then we had nutella and banana for dessert because we could. Take notes, dad.

Un Giorno A Pompei!

With only a half-day left in Naples before our flight back to Padova, Courtney and I decieded to go to Pompeii. Many people go to Pompeii to see the ruins that Mt. Vesuvius created out of a once-great city. Courtney and I, however, wanted to see the dead people that were turned to stone by the molten lava that covered the city. Because the only thing cooler than a city’s ruins is seeing that city’s population frozen in time and left as the first species of stone people.

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At first, as we wandered around Pompeii taking pictures of fallen stone columns and Mt. Vesuvius, we were afraid there were no more dead people to see. We began to think that it would be hard to keep stone versions of people in tact for the 2000 years it had been since that dark day all that time ago. We were bummed, but I guess that’s just how the cookie stone crumbles.

And then we saw it. No, not it, but rather…them. The dead people. And their pots and sculptures. But we were mostly interested in the dead people. There were four or five of them left, a species of extinct people living on as dried old molten rock. As Courtney said so elegantly as we looked at the departed: Well, I’m glad I didn’t live there.” She’s a gem, I know.

Welcome to Deadsville.

In all seriousness, it was extremely sad to see people – real people – left as stone, so clearly hoping that they were not going to die on that day. One person was in the fetal position while two others were sprawled out on their stomachs, protective positioning that failed to spare them their lives. If one were to put a positive spin on their deaths (hard to do but I’m going to try), they at least died in historical fashion, preserved for millions to see hundreds of years later. Barring an eruption from Mt. St. Helens or Mt. Shasta that rivals that of Mt. Vesuvius (and even that might be enough in our far more advanced world), I doubt very much that my body will be preserved for that long. And I am definitely sure that that many people won’t want to see my decaying body all those years later. So to all of the dead people in Pompeii, this is to you:

Pouring some out for the homies.

That pretty much wrapped up our trip to Naples. I would talk more about the scary gypsies on the train back from Pompeii or the general constant feeling that we were in danger walking around Naples, but this blog isn’t here to scare my parents into worrying about me. As long as I keep churning out blog posts, there is a good chance I’m still alive. Not guaranteed, but definitely a solid chance.

We are off to Verona now! Ciao!

Me making a “Pompeii-is-really-hot” joke. Wasn’t the best I’ve ever made…